


Ignite

by thedeviltohisangel



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M, Others will be introduced later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-03 12:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10967709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeviltohisangel/pseuds/thedeviltohisangel
Summary: Estella is new to Hell's Kitchen but more than ready for her share of the action.





	1. Prologue

It burned bright as it flitted across the sallow expanse of the canvas. A deep red, the color of blood, the taste of copper stinging in her mouth upon sight.

It pressed into the fabric, ingraining itself in the story she was telling. Siempre parece ser recordado, you never forget the things you’ve seen tainted red.

The hairs of the brush pressed even harder as the pigment faded. A streak of the color caressed her forehead from her hand anxiously pushing away loose strands of hair that were intent on interfering with her work.

Gold was the next color she eligió. Oro. She watched the way it picked up the moonlight and gave it back to her as she etched es historia into the image that stood before her.

It dazzled as it was meant to. It danced across her vision in a flourish of candlelight, dripping in the memories of sunlight streaming through a kitchen window. Dripping in memories that are farther away than the people who inhabited them.

“Who taught you how to paint?” She turned to the woman who had spoken from the doorway of the studio she had fashioned together in Tel Aviv.

“My father taught me how to feel. Todo lo que necesita. The rest is all in the wrist.” Vanessa walked behind her and gazed softly at the painting she was working on.

“It is so beautiful, Estella. You have such a gift.”

“One of my many talents, I can assure you.” Stella rose from her stool and padded her way to the small fridge, removing a Diet Coke. “Anything to drink?”

“Any red wine hidden in there? Is this not a cause for celebration?” She smirked but removed the bottle and poured a singular glass.

“I don’t drink. The effects it has on my concentration, no vale la pena.” Vanessa accepted the glass gratefully, raising it in a toast.

“To the future of Hell’s Kitchen.” Stella raised hers in response, clinking before taking a sip.

“So, when do we start?”


	2. Oh I Want Something Just Like This

Her couch was the only soft thing that had been unpacked so far, her other furniture spread amongst her apartment and bound in plastic wrap. This was home now. White washed wood floors and an area rug she had made with her mom on a trip to Arkansas.

The only light in the apartment were her namesakes, them and the moon providing just enough for her to see shapes drifting in the space around her. She shuffled her way to the kitchen, grabbing a glass from a box on the counter and filling it with water.

Leaning over the faucet she glanced out her window towards the city. She couldn’t see much besides the lights streaming out of windows and faintly a billboard off in the distance. Barely was anything heard over the honking of horns and piercing sirens of emergency vehicles. Her muscles barely twitched as the fur of her cat unexpectedly shivered across her arm.

“Luna, will you be happy here?” Estella knew that Luna would be, all the feline required was a window that let in enough sunlight to warm her, but she worried about herself. Stella had learned to understand that if she wasn’t in trouble, then she wasn’t having any fun. Hell hath no fury como un mujer aburrido. A brief kiss was placed to the top of her Luna’s head before she took her water back to the couch, the moonlit angle providing a fire underneath her for her sketchbook.

She let her fingers do their best to translate the thoughts running through her mind, the short strokes increasing in urgency as her soul spoke faster. They weren’t frantic, she never moved without a controlled purpose. She never let her emotions ahogar her. They flowed from heart, through her veins to her hands where she would posit them on whichever medium presented itself to her. And there she could leave them until she needed them again. Si alguna vez lo hizo.

“Emotions are a weapon, Estella. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The same way I’ve taught you to properly store your knives, you must store your emotions. Use them to disarm your opponent but do not ever let them hijack yours, Estella. They are the most vulnerable part of your armor.”

She smirked to herself as the memory flitted across her mind and the page.

“Algunos de nosotros hacemos nuestra propia luz,” she whispered to herself. The finished sketch lay before her, the moon bathing it in an innocent white. Tucking her feet underneath her, she leaned forward and tucked the paper into the windowpane so it perfectly meshed with her vison of the dime-sized, full moon. Her fingers smoothed over it once, the ridges of the paper and thick shavings of charcoal etching themselves into her fingertips, before she rose from the couch and stalked into her bedroom.

She knelt beside the bed, her fingers interlocking in front of her.

“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, hagomel lahayavim tovot, sheg'molani kol tov,” she whispered before rising. The amen was thought silently as her hand enclosed around the knob for her bedside table, inside her butterfly knife. She whispered the prayer again as her body worked through memory of the motions of the systematic exercise. “Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, hagomel lahayavim tovot, sheg'molani kol tov.”

When Stella felt complete, she gently put the knife back into place but not before she ran her fingertips over the names engraved on the side. “I won’t let you down,” she murmured, a secret between them. Her wrist flicked off the lights, her arms pulling the sheets over her head, her only attempt to shield against her demons that lurked in the dark.

The following day was filled with unpacking, the guitar of classic rock steering her through the tiring task of assembling her apartment into a temporary home. Luna had been no help, save for the comfort of her fur as she weaved between Stella’s legs as they twirled and pranced around the space.

A knock on her door interrupted her rhythm. She made her way silently to the door, peering out the peep hole before undoing the latch and opening the door. It wasn’t open all the way, just enough for her torso to pop through and for Luna to stand like a sentinel between her legs.

“Hello.” She didn’t mean to sound confused or for the word to come out so clipped but she prided herself in not being caught off guard and the man in front of her had done just that.

“I’m Felix! I live across the hall and thought I’d bring you a housewarming gift.” He extended his hands which were holding a plate of cupcakes, the message of ‘Welcome!’ spelled out in frosting.

“Well, thank you, Felix. Mucho.”

“Do you speak Spanish? Are you from Mexico?” Stella chuckled slightly, placing the plate of treats on the coffee table next to the entrance way.

“No. I am not. España. Mexico is quite lovely though, if you go to the right places.” She tilted her head as she watched him mull through her words. “Would you like to come in? I made turkey chili.”

Two hours later, Felix was sat on her couch with Luna purring as his hand scratched her back, the acceptance of the cat meaning more than anything in the mind of Stella.

“So anyways,” he was telling Stella a story about the last time he had gone out with a man he met on the internet, “I ordered vodka to drink, right, because he had his shirt buttoned all the way up so I knew I was going to need it, and he made a comment, he had the audacity to make a comment, that only angry people drink vodka. Like, what?” Stella nodded in agreement, taking a ginger sip of her water. “What’s your drink, Stella?”

“Water only,” she murmured as she placed her glass on the table in front of her.

“How would I say ‘you’re no fun’ in Spanish?”

“No eres divertido.” Estella took a sip from her water with a smirk as Felix repeated the phrase back to her.

“I was so nervous once the old renter moved out of this place about having some evil, crotchety neighbor but am so glad that is not how the universe decided to play me.”

“Well I was just happy to find a place on such short notice. Enough about me. Tell me about Hell’s Kitchen.” She folded her feet beneath her, Luna bounding over in order to curl up into her lap.

“You’ve happened to come at the most amazing time. We have masked vigilante gallivanting around town,” Felix said with raised eyebrows as he looked at Stella over his glass. Stella hummed in acknowledgement.

“And what is it that we know about him?” Stella knew all about this masked man that had come out of nowhere, seemingly taking it upon himself to protect the streets of Hell’s Kitchens from any and all villains.

“He saves people apparently, I don’t know. But his picture in the paper the other day was blurry, but girl, his ass is a peach I wouldn’t mine sinking my teeth into.” They both let out a laugh at how candid his remark had been.

“Well I’m sure he must work out hard and often to be able to be a hero, no?”

“Hero? The jury is still out on that one. They are calling him the devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“The devil?” Stella was pretty sure she had already met him and he was certainly not a masked vigilante patrolling the streets of New York.

Felix continued explaining all he knew about the phenomenon and all the controversy surrounding him as well. The whole time Stella found herself listening to what he was saying but not really absorbing it. She was too focused on her plan on how she would find this Devil. He was clearly a man on a mission, an attribute she could relate to and appreciate and perhaps he could help her with hers. She didn’t know if she could do it alone anymore, Mauritania had proved that.

A little while she walked Felix to the door, promising she would cook him dinner in the next week to repay him for the cupcakes and company.

As she made herself a quick dinner of grilled salmon her mind worked through the logistics and potential obstacles this new player could pose. She would have to find him and soon in order to make her final determination whether he could help or would harm her. If the latter, he would have to be dealt with swiftly and silently. She had spent too long on the run for Thorne to find her because of a mistake she made willingly.

As soon as the cover the night was thick enough, Estella slipped out onto her fire escape before ascending the stairs to the roof in order to have a bird’s eye view of her corner of New York City.

“Sin sirenas, sin rastreros de bolsa,” she muttered. She was beginning to feel like tonight might not be her night.

But then it occurred to her. If she couldn’t find trouble, then she would have to cause it. Tomorrow was the night of her gallery opening, the perfect time to dress as a damsel in distress and ensnare the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

The next morning she sat with a month’s worth of newspapers and a map of Hell’s Kitchen, plotting the sightings of the masked man in order to try and discern where the perfect place would be to lure him in.

“Va a ser una noche larga, Luna,” she whispered as she reached the end of her mug of coffee. “But hopefully a productive one.”

She dressed for the occasion in a pink dress with gold detailing along the hemline and bodice. She made sure to pack her essentials into her purse, her knife and travel size pistol.

“Deséame suerte,” she whispered to the photo that she kept tucked into the drawer of her bedside table. And with one last glance around her apartment she shut the door.


End file.
